


Truth of the kill

by MathConcepts



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I don't take criticism, Joe has THOUGHTS about this man, M/M, Nicky is a little shit, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, killing each other other used to be foreplay for these two, no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25384105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathConcepts/pseuds/MathConcepts
Summary: The moment when hate turns to passion, and frenzied obsession turns to lust, comes when he wakes from yet another death, with nothing but a rent in his clothes to mark the fatal wound dealt by his enemy's sword.It occurs to Yusuf many times after having slain this man, that killing him is perhaps not all he wishes to do.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 8
Kudos: 220





	Truth of the kill

**Author's Note:**

> I had ideas...like Nicky with long hair, the two fucking on a battle field, said long hair kink, Nicky's pretty eyes™ kink, the Oh Shit I've fallen for this person trope, killing each other used to be foreplay, and I squished it all together and slathered it on here.
> 
> Enjoy.

The moment when hate turns to passion, and frenzied obsession turns to lust, comes when he wakes from yet another death, with nothing but a rent in his clothes to mark the fatal wound dealt by his enemy's sword. His foe is stretched out on the dirt beside him, laying where he fell when Yusuf's scimitar opened his throat. But he breathes, his hand clasped around his neck, the flesh knitting together under the long fingers.  
  
Yusuf rises, drawing his scimitar from the ground as he does, and bejeweled eyes follow his ascent. He does not know eyes as this man has, both as blue as the sky and green as the trees, eyes that he has seen the life fade from many times, each time never being the last. When he kills this man again, he will see the life fade from them once more. The fair devil's face contorts in alarm as Yusuf raises his blade to strike, and he reaches out desperately for the sword that lays just out of his reach, his fingers scraping into the dust just shy of the hilt.

Yusuf watches him struggle, savoring the futility of it. At the same time it is disappointing that he will not be given a fair fight. He has crossed blades with the man enough to know that he is a formidable warrior, and has been slain in enough ways to know this man's skill in death. This war has become _their_ war, it is this man and no other that Ysuf seeks out and slays on the battlefield, as a hunter might pursue a prize game.  
  
It has become madness, the pursuit of this man. He will not rest until he dies truly, or Yusuf himself dies. For all things _must_ die, and Yusuf will battle him an eternity until he does. He raises his blade, and the man abandons the sword to crawl back from him, dragging himself through the dust, his eyes never leaving Yusuf's face. The sight awakens a flare of anger in Yusuf, hot and bright. Will he now run from him after having slain him moments before?

In two strides he overtakes him, and on impulse reaches down and snares a handful of the man's light, tangled hair, using it to haul him onto his knees. The man lets out a wordless cry, his hand flying up to catch Yusuf's wrist, yanking fruitlessly at it, and Yusuf's grasp only tightens until he is sure it is causing pain. The man snarls in a language Ysuf does not know, it's soft, venomous, and carries the promise of death to come. Yusuf only laughs, wrapping the sand colored hair around his palm and forcing the man's head back, baring his throat. There is no mark on there, no weeping blood, just smooth skin. It amazes Yusuf every time, the lack of wounds, of scarring. To other men, it would be something to be fearful of, to him it brings a strange comfort. In so short a time he has come expect the strange healing, the way skin and bone seam back together.   
  


His enemy hisses something at him, and Yusuf finds himself staring at the stretch of his neck, the way it moves with every foreign word. If he opened his throat again, it would return to its flawless state quickly. To cut his heart from him might keep him dead longer, perhaps forever. There is a dagger on his belt for the job, sharper and more easily wielded than a scimitar.   
  
He reaches for it, keeping the man on his knees by the force of the hand in his hair alone, only for his fingers to curl around nothing.  
  
  
Then comes the pain as his own blade is driven into his side, and he staggers, his hand falling away, catching here and there in the matted hair of his foe. The man favors him with a sly smile, his light eyes wicked, knowing, and something flames in Yusuf at that stare. The man _is_ a devil, he is something strange, something _other_. Something that Yusuf _wants_. He wants the clear eyes and the sly twist of the mouth, the long neck and strange words. But the wanting does not prevent him from opening his throat for the second time that day. The man is the enemy still. And he has just stabbed him.  
  
Yusuf's wound does not kill him, but his enemy dies quickly, gasping out for breath, his blood leaching into the hungry ground under him. Ysuf pulls the dagger from his side and waits for the man to wake. He does soon enough, coughing out more words in that strange tongue as he breathes again.   
  
He becomes aware of Yusuf crouched by his shoulder, and swears at him in the foreign language, Yusuf knows he swears, the words are sharp and angry.

Yusuf laughs again, though he does not understand, the intent and hatred they carry is clear.

The man takes offense at his laugh, and as he is devoid of weapons, catches up a large rock and flings himself on Yusuf, and they go down together, tussling in the dirt. Yusuf manages to wrest the rock away from him and seizes his wrists, bringing his weight to bear and pinning the man beneath him. He's hard pressed to _keep_ him pinned, for the man struggles, writhing wildly in an attempt to free himself.  
  
The feel of the man squirming beneath him is dangerous, and serves no purpose than to awaken a long-dormant hunger. It occurs to Yusuf that he could have this man now if he wanted him, (and oh, how he does) here in the dust and dirt and blood. But the thought does not appeal, despite his need. It is to battle that he wants, not to pillage.   
  
But he allows himself a taste, a spoil of his current victory. He leans over and presses his lips against the man's, firmly and for no short length of time, and tastes salt and blood, and something more sharp, elusive, something he chases, forgetting his surrounds, forgetting himself.  
  
He lies on the ground only a little while later, his lips torn from a savage bite, his mouth full of blood, and his scalp knitting together, and watches his enemy's retreating back. Soon he will rise, and the chase will began again, the battle anew. To what end he cannot tell, but he will savor every moment nonetheless.


End file.
